


magic in the midnight sun

by solipsismlemonade



Series: last call for sin [6]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And Milla, Canon Divergence, Crossfire, Hell's Kitchem, I Think About Shadowland A Lot, I'm so sorry, Matthew "Catholic Guilt" Murdock, Superheroes, The Hand, The Killers - Freeform, The good shit, Vigilantism, and I will deliver, and forgot almost everything, better safe than sorry, but hey who's looking, but it doesn't get too heavy, canon-typical violence and peril, dustland fairytale <3, everything hits different at 3 am, funky mental stuff, has canonical severe clinical depression, hey remember when matt was MARRIED?, i have promised, i just. like to be sure yk, i read the run a while ago, i think crossfire is technically brandon flowers, im back, it's not THAT violent but like, just remember that matt, listen, mmmmm ninjas, mr fear (referenced), no betta we die like fish, referenced institutionalized character, sol still can't tag, spoilers for the daredevil 2015 run, that I don't know how to tag, theyre short chapters im sorry, this just in:, three-part the killers fic, tranquilize, unholy amalgamation of comics and show, who missed me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26639227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solipsismlemonade/pseuds/solipsismlemonade
Summary: tell the devil that he can go back from where he came / his fiery arrows drew their bead in vain / and when the hardest part is over we'll be here / and our dreams will break the boundaries of our fears
Relationships: Milla Donovan / Matt Murdock (referenced)
Series: last call for sin [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681792
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	1. the boundaries of our fears

Matt could still smell Milla. He thought he’d forgotten that smell; lilac and a light, flowery perfume, linen and soap and beneath, the gut-punch cocktail of chemicals and scents that made her up. He couldn’t remember the feel of her face or the sound of her voice but after last night – after hearing her, right there – Matt could still smell her, wherever he went. Lilac and soap and Milla.

He dug the hell of a palm into his temple, eyes shut tight. Hell’s Kitchen was the city that never slept and the sound of it was deafening tonight; a cacophony of chaos that invaded Matt’s senses, stole his breath away and made him want to –

Matt thumped the side of his head with a hand, gently, and the noise settled to a bearable level. Normally he – if ‘liked’ wasn’t the right word – didn’t mind the noise. It was good, anchoring, and Matt liked keeping a hand or two on the pulse of New York, hear its lifeblood rushing through the streets. Tonight, though, Matt was frenetic and unsure, a combination that never bode well. Milla couldn’t have been in his apartment. She was locked away in an asylum, and he had a restraining order besides, one that had kept him from seeing her in years and years. Foggy had – he hadn’t said it, but he’d been thinking it. Even over the phone, Matt had heard the unspoken words.

 _You’re crazy, Matt_.

Maybe he was. It wouldn’t have been the first time and Matt was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

Even so, Foggy had gone to check on her, leaving Matt here – wherever here was – and he was waiting – he didn’t know what or whom for – but he knew the night outside his window had stretched taut like a well-oiled bowstring, ready to snap at a moment’s notice.

The breaking point came with the _huff_ of an arrow whistling past his ear and the rhythmic scrape-and-slide of blued steel from a leather scabbard. It came with the pungent smell of choji oil and uchiko powder; the whisper of fine black cloth and muffled breathing. Daredevil was getting tired of this ninja bullshit.

He feinted left, drove a fist into someone’s ribcage, and narrowly avoided becoming a red-and-black shish kebab. He could hear the headline now: _Idiot Takes on Drug Ring Ninja Clan, Ends Up Skewered On Rooftop!_ like a dumbass. He was stupid, for having let them get this close, but the night was filled with so much stimuli. Too much. There were crickets and pigeons and rats, the click of a stoplight and the roar of some idiot’s engine sans muffler, sewage still warm from the heat of the day and the crisp smell of gravel and then it was all _clove oil undyed cotton sand steel leather_ as he was swarmed. He’d been thinking about Milla and Foggy. The thought was gone as soon as it came, like the fading smell of lilac and soap.

There was a stinging cut running down the inside of his elbow. He’d gotten distracted somewhere down the line and now it was all snowballing. The injuries started to stack up, even as he laid what felt like the fourth ninja out with a well-timed right hook. Two more – no, three, dammit, the oil made his eyes and nose itch and the crunch of gravel under boots was only drowned out by the heavy rasp of Daredevil’s breathing – and then there was a knife sticking out from between Daredevil’s ribs and wedged in the thin seam joining two plates of body armor together.

Two more. Daredevil vaulted off the roof and tucked into a flip, hand finding his one remaining baton and throwing it – it rang of a skull with a hollow _crack!_ and he tucked and rolled across the sloping shingle of an upscale apartment building, gauntleted hands scrabbling at the roof, coming to a rolling stop just before the edge.

“You’re getting sloppy,” the remaining ninja said quietly across the gap in roofs. Daredevil allowed himself a moment of _ow ribs ow ah, hell, concussion_ before he shoved himself to his feet, drawing in a fortifying breath.

“Allergy season,” Daredevil replied, shrugging and giving the ninja a _what can you do?_ face. “So are you.”

“You’ve been at this for a long time.” Her voice was quiet – a New York accent. Not quite Hell’s Kitchen and not quite NYC… Brooklyn. Huh. Was that what they were doing over there these days? “You have denied The Hand time and time again. We are immortal. You are just a man.”

“There’ll always be someone.” Daredevil worked his neck to get the crick out of it, spat blood to the side, and loosened his shoulders, fists held in front of his face and chin tucked. “Are you going to talk at me all night, try to bore me to death?”

The fight was brief. In summary, Daredevil won a shiny new black eye and a fat lip; all five – six? – ninjas were rounded up and dumped outside a clinic; they were a mess of broken bone and cartilage and what Daredevil suspected was at least three concussions.

Hell’s Kitchen was quiet now. The fuzzing under his skin had settled to something… less. Daredevil took a shortcut, melting into the night. He liked the new suit. It was less attention brought to him, less flashy than the bright red had been.

He’d even almost forgotten about the knife stuck in his side, and then he tripped coming up a fire escape – the toe of his boot caught under the lip of the rain gutter and then his hands wouldn’t work, paralyzed by blood loss and exhaustion, and Daredevil crashed back into the alley, rattling a chain-link fence and startling a cat that had been loitering by the wall.

Maybe the black suit had been a mistake, after all. He couldn’t be sure – he could never be sure – but Daredevil suspected the dark was only working against him here.

Daredevil let his head thump back against the cold pavement and listened to Hell’s Kitchen move around him. The smell of wet concrete and rotting leaves faded in and out like a bad radio signal, cold and numb fuzzing his limbs and senses. It almost could have been peaceful here.

 _You never take time for yourself,_ Karen whispered to him. _What happens to the Kitchen if its Guardian Devil disappears?_

“Nothing, Karen.” Daredevil let sightless eyes close and palmed the hilt of the knife in his ribs, wondering at the searing metal parting skin and muscle. “…nothing happens.”

Maybe he was crazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK HI!!! so like three or four months ago ao3 just stopped sending me notification emails for kudos and comments and i completely forgot there was a place i could actually put these puppies down in but i ALSO started college and it's been a helluva time (the schoolwork ain't bad) but i also know y'all aren't here for a life update (i'm giving it to u anyway). this is based somewhere in the middle of Waid's 2015 daredevil run and there's, like, partial spoilers (i know this is a little late since this is an endnote but i also put it in tags!!) but also a fuckton of canon divergence bc u know me, i love to cherry pick. i have to be to be a marvel fan. uh,,,, and i have two more parts planned, also with killers / brandon flowers titles and inspiration!! i hope to get them out sometime before the end of october and i'll probably go mia again for november (nanowrimo, comment if anyone's interested / participating maybe?) and then be BACK with another three-part series, this time about early years bruce wayne. that's the plan, anyway, no promises whether or not i'll stick to it. i hope everyone's doing stellar, especially with the quarantine and all, sending good vibes + love to all two of my dedicated followers


	2. a dream might help you cope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i don't care where you've been / and i don't care what you've seen / we're the ones who still believe / and we're looking for a page / in that life less book of hope / where a dream might help you cope

Matt was in California again. The West Coast always smelled and sounded different to Matt; there weren’t any pines here, more sand, more beach, much less humid and a bit hotter. New York would have the bite of autumn in the air this time of year, but California was mild and dry as always. He was walking barefoot along one of California’s endless beaches; judging by the sun and the tide, it couldn’t have been any later than 3 in the afternoon.

He liked it here.

Walking in the sand was a different workout compared to tumbling across rooftops, and his calves were very, very aware of it. He hadn’t been to a beach in years. Too much sensory static, from the sea, the gulls, the people, the sand. It turned his senses into a mesh of white noise, made tatters of his concentration.

This, though… this was nice. There were only a few gulls as far as he could hear, the soft _thud_ of their pinions brushing through the air and high, undulating cries no longer an unwelcome distraction. The sea was a comforting wall of hissing static to his right, flooding up onto the fine, soft sand and washing away. It was empty, Matt the only person he could sense for… at least a mile. The beach stretched out before and behind him, a vast stretch of salt-sand-feathers-sun-shells. Even the sky had a distinct smell, cleaner than he was used to, like Matt had always thought the color blue would be like if it had a smell. He’d forgotten what it looked like. He lived in a world of temperature and sound, touch and taste but no color, no vivid sunsets or lurid paint for him.

He’d never minded. He got asked it a lot; if he missed sight. How could he miss something he didn’t remember? Matt didn’t miss it, no, but he told everyone the same thing.

 _I’d give anything to see the sky one more time_.

It wasn’t a lie.

The feel of sand between his toes and under the tough, scarred soles of his feet was soothing. It was just edging from pleasant-warm and into too-hot but Matt had walked over worse. There was nothing out here. It was what he needed. Nothing to fear.

In the pocket of his dress pants, his phone buzzed at him.

 _Foggy, Foggy, Foggy_.

Matt pulled the phone out, pausing on the shore, feeling the salted wind and sun on his face, and weighed the phone in his hand. It was light. If he threw it far enough, though, it wouldn’t matter. It was metal and plastic; it would sink out of hearing, into the susurrus of the ocean. At some point he’d unbuttoned the top two buttons of his white shirt; he’d lost the tie a while back along with his shoes, and he was fairly sure his shirt was untucked.

He could hear it. Matt imagined the _whoosh_ of the phone as it sailed through the air; the short, abrupt sound it would make as it hit the water; the silence enveloping him again.

_Foggy, Foggy, Foggy._

He could let it all go. He could throw it all away, here and now, and never have to look back. Matt’s fingers tightened around the phone reflexively and he made a convulsive motion, arm drawing back, shoulders canting. He could disappear, and no one would know. One more urban legend gone, one more martyr laid to rest.

 _Foggy, Foggy, Foggy_.

Matt licked dry, hot lips and closed sightless eyes, turning his face up to the sun. He’d never been a quitter.

\---- . ----

God, he hated waking up in cold, just-damp-enough-to-be-unpleasant alleys with a splitting headache and the fuzziest feeling behind his eyes. It was, simultaneously, the worst and most familiar feeling Daredevil had. He didn’t like what that said about his social life or hobbies – or lack thereof, as it were. Maybe he really did need to take up knitting, like Foggy had told him. Something constructive.

Daredevil staggered to his feet, leaning heavily against the cold brick of the alley wall – _smoke limestone mortar blood sweat fear_ – and pulled his buzzing phone out, swiping a gauntleted thumb across the screen. That was Foggy’s rhythm. He wouldn’t be calling – not this late – what was he even doing still up? – if it weren’t important. Foggy was always important, maybe the most important thing in Daredevil’s life. He never wanted to jeopardize them – whatever was left of them – again. He couldn’t. There wouldn’t be any of him left, not of Daredevil nor Matt Murdock.

So he answered, and he held the phone up to his ear, even though he didn’t need to.

“Ma – hey?” Foggy said tentatively, sounding breathless and shaky on the other end of the line. “I – I checked in with Milla. Like you asked.”

Daredevil’s heart plummeted into the pit of his stomach and he swayed back against the alley wall, wishing he hadn’t stood up in the first place. The sick, dizzy feeling in his head only built, exacerbated by the blood coating his right side and gauntlet. It was, of course, a testament to Daredevil’s many years of crime fighting that he knew the blood was not supposed to be _outside_ of his body, especially not in such an alarming amount. “Is she – is she safe?” Daredevil asked, eyes squeezed shut. He couldn’t be crazy. But if he wasn’t, that meant Milla was in danger. He couldn’t take this, not again.

“That’s the thing.” Foggy was speaking fast now, words spilling out over each other, tone growing more and more frantic as he went on. “She’s gone, M – she’s gone. All her stuff’s packed up, the room’s empty, and the staff won’t say what happened, and I can’t even – I can’t do anything, because _I can’t actually be here_.”

The bottom dropped out of Daredevil’s stomach and he stood there for a second, frozen, the only sound a hissing static in his ears. Milla was gone. That was what tonight had been; a distraction. He’d only passed out for a minute or three, nothing more, but the damage was done.

Milla was gone.

“I’m coming there,” Daredevil said through numb lips. Someone on the staff had to know. Someone would tell him where the Hand had taken Milla. They would break eventually. They always did. “You’d better clear out before I get there.”

“Matt, I don’t – ”

“I’m gonna find her,” Daredevil replied, voice dropping. “I’m gonna find her, I can’t – this can’t be my fault. Not again.”

It was a lie even as he spoke it, and they both knew it. It was already his fault, it had been from the beginning, and no amount of broken bones or bloody knuckles could change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been listening to tranquilize on loop for the past two hours and banged this bad boy out in abt forty minutes i THINK (the sacrifices i make for my two followers) but i've also been thinking a Lot abt a reaper (overwatch) fic ,,, the california beach sequence at the beginning was initially the scaffolding for a tony / matt fic i had in the works so,,, don't be surprised if a similar scene appears in something else. whoops. in other news, i recently (like half a year ago) moved from the east to the west coast and LET ME TELL U, it rly is a whole diff world here. i'm hoping to get the third + final chapter of this out Soon so i can work on that bruce wayne fic and then do the reaper <333 fic


	3. the devil wrapping up his hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and where the dreams roll high / and where the wind don't blow / out here the good girls die / and the sky won't snow

Three days without sleep. Two stab wounds. One angry, adrenaline-filled vigilante with intent to _menace with extreme prejudice_. The hospital staff had to know something; all those cameras, all that personnel, all the money poured into the place – Daredevil would know, he’d checked – three times – and someone had to have been on the Hand’s payroll. Daredevil could only wish they’d gone after him instead, not Milla, not Foggy, not Karen. This was always what it boiled down to. The asylum was in upstate New York, somewhere secluded and hidden. Daredevil hitched a ride with a semi and then a beat-up truck with an exhaust pipe that smelled and sounded like something had died in it. By the time he got there, Foggy was long gone and the grounds were silent, save for pairs of watchmen creeping along the perimeter. Their routines were predictable and easy to avoid; one climbed wall and jimmied window later, Daredevil crouched in Milla’s room.

Empty.

The smell of Milla hit Daredevil like a gut punch and he almost staggered from the weight of memories all clamoring for his attention again. Milla had been – _was_ – an incredible woman. She still was. He couldn’t think like that. Her room practically echoed with her absence. Daredevil tugged a gauntlet off with his teeth and brushed the pillow with the tips of his fingers. It was still warm, to him; it had only been a few hours. Minutes, maybe, before Foggy had gotten here. Daredevil fought the urge to upend the bed – and everything in the room with it – and slid his gauntlet back on. This could still be fixed. He was going to fix everything, and –

“Uh.”

Daredevil froze, head turning. The door had opened while he’d been caught doing his internal monologue – he really needed to stop doing that – and a… nurse? – scrubs, smell of disinfectant, clipboard in hands – had stepped into the room.

“Where is Ms. Donovan?” Daredevil didn’t loom. He didn’t threaten the woman. He didn’t even move.

“Gone,” she whispered. Daredevil could hear her adrenaline kick in, heart beating a two-step rhythm inside her rib cage and breathing hitching at the back of her throat. He couldn’t _smell fear_ , literally speaking, but he could smell all its signs and composite parts, the things that made people feel fear. “There’s a man waiting for you on the roof. He said – he said you would never see her again.”

He was out the window again before she finished her sentence. She was telling the truth, and that was all he needed to know.

The roof was slippery even under the treads of Daredevil’s boots, which were just about made for gripping slippery roofs. He heaved himself up and over the gable, flipping to land on his feet. He didn’t fall off and break his neck on the pavement below, but it was a near thing. This high up, the world smelled like chemicals and gravel and roofing tile and choji oil. It always came back to them, didn’t it? The Hand was his beginning and his end and ultimately, everything in between. Daredevil faced a body armor-clad fighter down, shoulders and hands weighted with lead.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he said, voice soft. “I’ll fight you. And if there’s anyone after you I’ll fight them, too. And I’ll drag where Milla is out of you. We can do this with the broken bones or without.”

The disciple of the Hand drew a long, sharp katana. Blued, hardened steel. Leather-wrapped grip. Heavy. Good distance. Daredevil rolled his head from side to side and put his fists up, gauntlets torn and bloodied. Broken bones it was.

He let the ninja come to him, waiting it out. They were always impatient, at first. Daredevil settled into the rhythm of the fight; push and pull, pulling out a baton to parry the too-sharp edge of the katana. He scored a hit that knocked the ninja’s mask off – underneath was a young man, couldn’t have been more than 25, that smelled like fear. The ninja retaliated with a stinging, glancing blow to Daredevil’s shoulder with the pommel of his katana, and then it was all downhill from there.

Too little sleep. Too much blood loss. Daredevil blinked a second too slow and that was the edge of a blade whistling past his face, nicking his cheek and jaw and drawing a spray of copper-and-iron blood, thick enough to taste at the back of his throat. He slugged the guy in the chest, prompting a tiny _whoomph_ and followed it up with a right hook that spun the guy around and made him scramble for balance. Daredevil pressed his advantage, teeth bared in a crimson-stained snarl. Two steps forward and one back and he had the ninja’s back to the edge, one heel over the edge – Daredevil lunged and made a grab for the front of his robes, listening to the katana spin end over end and hit the pavement with a godawful clatter.

“Listen carefully and listen well, ‘cause I’m only gonna say this once,” Daredevil said, quiet. His shoulder hurt like hell and Daredevil was fairly sure his cheek had gone numb, but they were all edges of the puzzle. For the moment. “Where did you take Milla Donovan?”

“I didn’t.”

Truth.

Daredevil shook the man by his collar and let him drop an inch, feet scrabbling for purchase. To his credit, the ninja didn’t even flinch, but Daredevil could hear his pulse climb. “Don’t play games with me,” he rasped. “Or I’ll drop you. You’ll be para- or quadriplegic for life. You’ve seen what I can do. Are you willing to bet that the Hand will let you live after I’ve broken half the bones in your body?” It wasn’t a bluff.

Swallow. Exhale. The ninja’s pulse fluttered against Daredevil’s knuckles. “She’s gone, Devil. It was a ploy to draw you out. We didn’t take her, but you fell for the snare anyway.

His phone buzzed. Daredevil wasted half a second’s thought before answering, one hand still gripping the ninja. “I’m working.”

“And so am I. The Hand didn’t take her. Her parents did. I – poked around. Didn’t exactly leave when you told me to, okay, but something just wasn’t adding up, and – Ma – Dar – they don’t have her. Is what I’m trying to say. But she… I’m sorry, Matt. She’s not in New York anymore, and confidentiality – yeah. I’m sorry.”

Daredevil ended the call with the press of a button and tucked the phone back into a pocket. His hands weren’t even shaking, but he felt like they should have been.

“You always were so predictable when it came to the lives of others.” The voice was a sibilant hiss on the crisp wind that whipped at the top of the asylum roof. “So willing to jump onto the tracks for another. When will you learn your lesson?”

Daredevil opened his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the urge to leave a work unfinished has never been sexier but here we are. im on tumblr at solipsism-lemonade


End file.
